Water Under The Bridgers

"We talk for hours until finally
sleep takes over
the amphetamine"

Phoebe nailed it.

I remember getting on the train one time
in Flatbush,
I have no idea why I was there.

There were three of us,
empty husks of
rotten corn,
strung out shoelaces
parched and pale among
the REAL
people riding
to wherever the devil sent
them.

I painted a poor excuse for a picture,
sitting in stark contrast among the human ambition
pleading with the fates that
my girlfriend was in one of these tubes
riding toward her own
personal
hell.

I have too many stories like these.

I have too often seen
the sun rise over skylines,
that destroyer of revelry,
rudely proclaiming my
shame:

You whore for a snort!
You slut for a sniff!

Such language.

I like to think I may make it.
Two months on Tuesday.
Two months dry.
Two months
clean.

But there's a lot of broken glass to sweep
I've made a bit of a mess.

Some casualties were sustained
during the campaign
and
there are some people who don't think too highly of

Yours
Truly,

Artemis.

P.S. poor me,
poor,
poor,
me.